


Wrong

by PhantasmaDormi



Series: Syndianite/Diacate [7]
Category: Mianite - Fandom, Mianite(Minecraft Series), Minecraft - Fandom
Genre: Characters are purely based on the youtube series, Dianite is a God, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Rare Pair, Tom is a zombie, Unrevised Older Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-27
Updated: 2017-07-27
Packaged: 2019-01-08 21:07:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12262119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhantasmaDormi/pseuds/PhantasmaDormi
Summary: Something was wrong with Dianite. It started with sudden bouts of chaos, not too unusual, but still out of place. Then went 0-100 in the blink of an eye. He viciously attacked his siblings, tried to break Ianite. He was going mad. And it was getting worse.





	Wrong

**Author's Note:**

> Old work from late July

Tom was not scared. He was not intimidated, or feeling oppressed, or even a tiny bit fearful. Fuck no. He was super fucking worried. For a while all was peaceful. After the war, he had started (and kicked ass in), the Purge was put in place to stop any such event from taking place again. Strangely enough, the Purge was the first thing to show something was wrong with Dianite. On a day where rules meant nothing (apart from no killing, still very, very illegal), the zombie would have imagined that the Nether god would have thrived with the bouts of chaos that were unleashed. Instead, as the day came to a close, it seemed to have set him off…… but not in the usual way.

Admittedly, Dianite was the type to destroy things in his rages, needed a physical release for his emotions. This particular Purge day, however, led him to simply… glare. It was strange. Tom could tell he was upset, at what was a mystery. His eyes shone with an inner fire kindled by emotion and the markings along his body were glowing with a bright intensity. According to Furia (who still didn’t like Tom, but they united to assist the angered god) Dia had been standing there for nearly an hour. At one point, he had been so enraged that his horns started to let loose ashes from where they smoldered on the inside. (Tom personally though the demonic glowing was pretty hot, no pun intended, but this was not the time).

With Furia seemingly reluctant to approach the god, Tom took it upon himself to query, albeit a bit wary, as to what ailed him. As he came closer to the seated god, perched upon his throne in an uptight yet mighty fashion, the immortal’s eyes flicked to him. For a moment, the champion was stunned by the pressure hidden in those eyes, as though he was fighting something. (He would later, once he returned to this world, find out that this was the first time Dianite was close to losing against the corruption. The god insists that if he hadn’t walked up when he did, he would have fallen to it, even if only for a moment).

“Dia?” Tom addressed the god with a concerned frown. There was no response beyond a single blink. It was almost as though the god was… trying to recall where he was, what he was doing. The zombie strode closer to him, reaching out to carefully place his hand where it wouldn’t be burnt (Though it was hard to tell with the overall glowing skin). His touch seemed to draw him back, and with a breath, his markings started to fade to their traditional coloring. The Nether god slowly opened his arms, “Come here Tom.” On any other day, he would have bitched about being, well, the god’s bitch, but today was different. Skipping the pointless words, he elected to sink into the god’s lap, snuggling up into his chest and settling down. “Are you alright mate,” Tom asked once they had suitably wrapped around each other. He received no reply. And so, he worried more.

~

The next time was more… subtle, in a way. There were no obvious tells, but he felt something was off. In his recent trek through the Nether (getting more levels for enchanting) the pigmen seemed uncomfortable, the ghasts floating higher in the higher, passing by him with muted whimpers. It was almost as though the realm itself was waiting for something, warily expecting an event. It took a lot of effort not to full out run to Dianite’s personal temple.

Upon arrival the signs became clearer, subtle, but hard for a common guest to miss. The guards hid an anxious look in their eyes, the other passersbys walked with an uneasy twitch and Furia seemed to be missing. The zombie strode through the corridors with purpose, making a bee-line for Dianite’s pseudo office. (Really, it was the room he pretended to do work in, while listening to the prayers of his scattered following). “Good morning sunshine!” Tom chose to loudly announce his entrance (never knocking, he knew the god could tell he was coming from miles away, but he enjoyed the theatrics) despite it being well past noon in the overworld. The god spared him a glance before returning to his staring contest with some bullshit excuse of a property claim against one of his followers (though he may be terrible with paperwork, or legal problems in general, he could point out the flaws in anyone’s argument, often taking out his opposition through purely undermining their side).

With a huff, Tom continued into the room, pulling wasting no time. “What is wrong?” Just as the time before, Dianite remained off, shoulders tense, face set in a strange stoic expression, and gave no reply. Sighing, the zombie resolutely took vigil on the armrest of Dia’s rather large chair. (When he first got it many of his followers teased him about how it was basically a couch, until he stopped looking at the paperwork of any who referenced it as such. They quickly shut up about it).

As the Nether god leaned back over the papers he was definitely not looking at, Tom took the chance to work out the knots in the gods back. With a firm hand, he worked for at least an hour, before the god pulled him down into his lap, and resumed his ‘work’. They stayed like this for the rest of the day, and the atmosphere seemed to lighten with each passing moment. (The gratitude the god let show in his eyes when he carried his sleepy champion to bed stayed with him in his dreams that night).

~

It was the night of the Ianite reveal. The telling of what Dianite did to her. Her heart, her very soul. Stolen. While the others fretted over their next course of action, Tom fled to the Nether. He had to see his god, needed to know. Why. What brought him to taking such drastic measures, even for their brand of chaos.

The lava world was full of a charged silence. No pigmen were to be found. Ghasts huddled far above, no sounds emitting from them. Blazes were plunged deep into lava lakes. It all felt one push away from snapping. His path to Dianite’s temple was met with no life.

He crept through abandoned hallways, his path to the throne room completely empty. No guards, no fellow followers (though few chose to trek this far regardless), no mobs, just silence. The only sound permeating the thickness of the air was the clack of his shoes on the nether brick. Before him the door to the throne room was cracked open, and gave no resistance when pushed farther.

There, upon the steps before the might chair, sat the Nether god. He was hunched over, a small shaking taking over his frame. He held his head in his hands, curled in on himself. Tom approached him with an uncharacteristic softness. “Dia?” he called out to the god.

There was no response until he was knelt before him. “What did I do,” he immortal whispered brokenly, “What did I do?” He had no answer that would help, nothing to say to make this better. The god lifted his head. For a moment, Tom was taken aback by how much his eyes had changed. They were shadowed, lacking the fire they often sported, and something swam beneath them, something new. And in that instance, Tom knew, no matter what anyone said, that something was wrong with his god, had been for a while now. It was then he doubted if Dianite even knew what was wrong.

Wordlessly Tom wrapped his arms around the god, offering the one comfort he could give. He rested his cheek on his head, brushing against his horns, and gently rocked him. They stayed like that for hours. 

(And if Dianite had let himself cry, sob wretchedly into Tom’s chest, the evidence was gone by the time the zombie had to leave, managing to arrive late to the meeting set by the heroes, but leave far too early from comforting his forsaken god).


End file.
